


Gossamer Tongues

by albatrost



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, F/M, Flashbacks, Grinding, Mutual Masturbation, Post-Canon, Sexual Tension, Wet Dream, canonverse, god this is so embarrassing these dorks embarrass me, when i described this to lauren the first time i think i used the phrase "agc bildungsroman", which isn't quite right but also isn't wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-26 08:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20739236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albatrost/pseuds/albatrost
Summary: She remembered it, sometimes, when the air was rich with petrichor and the world was still.In which Mikasa has a particular knack for witnessing Armin's embarrassment, and in which bizarre unresolved tensions all break loose, eventually.Prompt fill for Arumika Week Day 6: Rainy Day





	Gossamer Tongues

She remembered it, sometimes, when the air was rich with petrichor and the world was still.

Mikasa had hardly been awake herself when it happened, those bleary eyes fluttering open moments earlier—but something felt wrong, and she slept far lighter than the bodies nestled to either side of her. The heat of the two boys flush against her was nearly uncomfortable with the hot season approaching. Sticky sweat had sheened over her skin, and she arched, back curling off the ground—frowned when the fabric clung wet to her shoulder blades. Tugging at her neckline, her head lolled in Eren’s direction.

That wasn’t a terribly adventurous guess for the source of the worst of the heat. The brunette’s breath washed warm over her shoulder, sound asleep. She spared a weak and drowsy smile at his lax expression. At his parted lips and the drool leaking from them onto the thin padded mattress. At the dark eyelashes brushing his cheek—and those cheeks weren’t as round or as soft as they used to be, but it was different from the sallow and starved way they had once sloped from his jutting cheekbone, back when the wall had first fallen, back when the three of them subsisted off scraps from shelter rations—and maybe he was just getting older. They all were. It was less than a week until they’d be able to enlist, she reminded herself—and they wouldn’t have much more time like this.

Despite this fact, and despite the serenity that settled in her chest just from watching him, she was still _hot_—caught herself wondering if she couldn’t nudge his cheek, gently turn him away from her—when a soft sound caught her attention.

Tentatively, she tossed her head toward Armin, who faced away from her as he slept. A part of her wondered if she had just imagined it, and if it wouldn’t just be better to push Eren away from her shoulder and drift off again, a deep tiredness settling in her bones—before she heard it again. He shifted weakly, almost indiscernibly, and that same noise caught her attention. Something breathless and formless, something that caught in his throat before it met his sleep-heavy lips. And he _was_ still sleeping, but she leaned a little closer out of curiosity—nose inches away from brushing the nape of his neck—and felt the heat radiating from his skin something feverish. So _that_ was the source.

Swallowing, she wondered if she ought to wake him—and for some reason the sound was still ringing in her ears, flipping over nervously in the pit of her stomach. She’d seen him wrought with fever before, heard him groan in discomfort—and that didn’t seem like what this was. And maybe a part of her _did_ understand what this was, in some loosely-woven and confused way—or at least knew enough to know that this was something she should stay out of—and maybe that was why she rolled onto her back again, stared at the ceiling. Felt her stomach squeeze tight in some anxious and unfamiliar way when she listened to him again.

And she knew she _shouldn’t_ be listening—could turn toward Eren and ignore it, focus on the distant rumble of thunder, find her way back to sleep—but her pulse thundered loud in her chest, hammering faster every time he loosed a weak, breathless moan, every time his back shifted slightly to bump into her arm—and the harder she thought about drowning it out, the more sharply she focused on it. Mikasa’s blood thrummed just as hot under her skin—and the more ragged his breathing turned, the harsher the rise and fall of her own chest became. And that nervous feeling tingled out to the tips of her fingers, made her mouth go dry—and this _was_ nervousness, wasn’t it?

All at once, his body jerked, back arching away from her—and she clamped her thighs together hard at the sound of his muffled groan. Startled herself at the liquid pleasure that carved hot down her spine, pooled warm in her gut. She could feel the sheet over both of them slip over her as his hips flexed, as she listened to that noise taper off. Mikasa inhaled shakily as she felt him shift, thought maybe he was settling again—before he sucked in a razor sharp breath that made her jump. 

The second he woke up, she became stiller then than she’d been before—saw him shift up onto an elbow, glance down—and a moment of confusion passed before he hissed out something like a curse, whipped the sheet away from himself. She shut her eyes, but kept one barely cracked, and watched Armin’s panicked glance over his shoulder. Even in the dark, and beneath the shadow of her lashes, she could tell how red in the face he was—flushed deep in mortification—but his shoulders still dropped in relief when he saw that neither of them had stirred. Those eyes lingered a little too long on her, in a particularly guilty and nerve-strung way, but he turned away before she could really think about what that meant. Would think about it later, some time when the throb of her heart wasn’t so heavy in her chest. 

Sitting up in a crouch, he started fishing around for new clothes—they’d gathered some more over the years, odds and ends—and thankfully, they were alone in their corner of the vacant storehouse, tucked away behind a wall of wooden crates. They were usually alone in the spot they’d chosen, spare rare visits from vagrants passing through—or the occasional squatting party of fellow refugees, still, because work was as scarce as roofs were pricey—but they went mostly unbothered. It was all more than bearable compared to the danger of sleeping outside, or to the foul reek of the crowded shelter they had lived in for years.

There was a smell now, she realized—something she wasn’t at all familiar with—and she noticed it after she shut her eyes, as she listened to the rustle of fabric when Armin rucked his pants down over his hips and shuffled them off. She tried not to wrinkle her nose, keeping her eyes firmly shut as Armin changed and wiped himself clean with the pants. She didn’t want him to know she was awake. Because whatever had happened, and whatever he had dreamed about, Armin was clearly embarrassed, and she doubted their presence made it any better.

She heard him get up and leave, and she did peel open a suspicious lid then. Suddenly realized that it was raining outside. She had barely heard, over the rush of blood in her ears, that the drip had started up from the hole in the damaged roof across the room—and that clean patter against the wood floor meant that, much to Armin’s luck, he could rinse out clothes right now if he wanted to.

She wondered why her pulse was still beating so fast, long after he’d left. It finally started to slow down, eventually—and Eren had started snoring at some point, which was somehow soothing now, despite how many times it had been a nuisance before—and she was fighting the urge to nod off, telling herself she should at least stay awake until Armin returned, when the door creaked back open. And her heartrate spiked right back up.

Statuesque, she lay rigid as he got into bed next to her, facing away from her again. Eren tossed weakly as Armin pulled the covers up over himself, letting in a draft—and viridian eyes peeled open.

“Mm, Armin?” he croaked out weakly, voice thick with sleep. “Armin, did you get up?”

The blonde’s head flopped down onto the pillow, and Mikasa watched him curl into himself a little. And as harmless as the question felt, its answer wasn’t—and Eren mumbled his name again, either too exhausted or too oblivious to care that he was being ignored—and Mikasa didn’t want to say anything, still didn’t want him to know she was awake even now—but Eren was reaching over her, stretching out to prod his shoulder—

“Leave him alone, Eren. Let Armin sleep.”

She saw the blonde start slightly when her words rang out—and she realized too late that there was a little too much clarity to her tone, something too insistent. Something a little too firm to be clueless. The brunette huffed and lowered his hand either way, grumbling something under his breath, before he tossed over onto his stomach and folded his arms under his head.

She rolled onto her side, stared levelly at the back of Armin’s head. It was cooler this way, with her sweaty back free from the padding, not touching either of them. Mikasa ignored the tremor down her spine when her thighs rubbed together—tried not to think about that—and decided to touch him instead. Her fingers curled hard over his bicep, and she saw him bury the side of his face deeper in his pillow, his ear bright pink from where it peeked out of flaxen hair—but he didn’t shrug off her touch. She squeezed sympathetically—could smell the rain in his hair, heart still racing in a bizarre way that she wasn’t sure what to do with—and Armin let her.

That was one of the last times they all slept together, and they enlisted in the military the following week.

~

He was embarrassed now, too.

It was dark outside, shadows stretched across the walls in splays of golden lamplight, and maybe it should have occurred to her that it was late enough for him not to be expecting company. Nevertheless, the moment she saw the soft glow beneath the crack of his door and realized he was awake, that slipped her mind. She had turned the knob, pushed it wide open with a creak, and stepped through the doorway in one fluid motion—and she announced herself with a word that snagged in her throat the moment she said it.

“Armin—”

It was barely a glimpse of him, leaning up against the headboard with pillows to his back, one leg bent at the knee and propped up onto the bed. Head tossed back against the wooden headboard. However, she didn’t _need_ to see much else besides how his arm was moving to figure out exactly what he was doing—and the second the realization cracked over her, whipsharp, she snapped her head away toward the hallway before she could see anything else. She heard the creak of bedsprings as he jumped and sat up abruptly—fumbled to cover his lap with a pillow—and she yanked the door back toward her so that it was cracked.

A flush crept up the back of her neck as she mumbled, “Sorry, I’ll, um, I’ll come back later—”

“Oh, _shit_, Mikasa, I’m so—I’m so sorry,” he stammered, sounding as flustered as he did out of breath.

Her stomach twisted up in a familiar way—and she shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts, still pointedly looking into the hallway. “Don’t be, I should’ve—I probably should’ve knocked.”

She couldn’t see much in her peripheral vision, but she heard the rustle of fabric and the pull of a zipper—and once she realized he was tucking himself away and making himself decent, she risked a glance toward him. And even if she knew the blood was boiling hot in her own cheeks, it did little to rival the deep red flush that had risen in his.

“You… you don’t have to stop, I can just come back later,” she winced—and that felt like the wrong thing to say, based on how his face burned and he looked at her wordlessly—and she was wondering if she shouldn’t just turn tail now—

“No, I’m—it’s fine,” he swallowed. Nodding toward the stack of papers in her arms—and maybe desperate to change the subject—he forced out, “Did you… have something I needed to look at?”

She bobbed her head once and hesitantly stepped into the room—still feeling intrusive, somehow—before closing the door behind her. The pillow was still over his lap, she realized, as she walked closer to his bed, and she fought a familiar stirring in her gut.

Dropping the stack down first, Mikasa settled on the bed. Armin reached over the pillow to pick up a clipped stack of pages, thumbing through it carefully.

“Jean wanted me to give these reports to you,” she stated simply, and her pulse still hammered in her throat. “They detail the new proposed naval strategies.”

Armin frowned slightly, cheeks still flushed. “Jean knows I’ve been working with technology development for nearly a year, why would he—”

“It’s a scientist's question, not a strategist’s one,” she clarified, and he hummed in understanding. Mikasa tried not to focus so intently on his hand as he rifled through the pages, tried not to focus on what it had been doing moments ago. “Jean doubts the compatibility of the naval formation and maneuvers with the, uh, the latest modification… that the engineering team made to the planes—”

“Planes?”

“Hm?” 

“You said planes…” Armin murmured, brows drawn, rifling through the pages and flipping it over as though he must have missed something.

“Mm, sorry, ships,” she corrected, voice a little unsteady, and it was harder to focus than she thought. “I meant to say ships.”

“Oh,” Armin nodded—and there was a perturbed furrow in his brow that seemed as relieved about the confusion being resolved as he was worried about her slip of the tongue. It wasn’t like her.

Mikasa opened her mouth to say something else, but came up dry. A quiet pause stretched taut between them, and her swallow felt loud. Was loud. The only other sound in the room, save the throb of her heart, was the tender tapping of rain against the roof, light as a flutter of moth’s wings. A familiar memory. And as much as she tried to resist, her eyes flickered down to the pillow before she could stop them—back up again, swiftly, guiltily, but she could tell that he saw it—and that alone had her blush deepening, blood all but sizzling beneath the skin.

“I’m sorry,” she confessed as earnestly as she could, lifted a hand to shadow her eyes. “I should probably go. I could… come back after you’re finished.”

And she had _meant_ when he was finished reviewing the reports, but that didn’t come across as clearly as she had hoped it would. A deeply sympathetic crease knit Armin’s brows, and he stumbled through an apology as best he could.

“Mikasa, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have… invited you in anyways, with the reports, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—”

“I’m not uncomfortable.”

The words left in her in a rush, eager to placate his panic—but she mentally slammed on squealing, hissing brakes the moment she said them, because their truth suggested something else. And Armin just blinked at her in confusion.

“Oh—”

“Yeah.”

Armin bit his lip, looking uncertain as he tried to think of something to say next—wondered if he should deflect back to Jean, or ships, or even planes if they had crossed her mind—but she beat him to it when she added, with a fresh hesitance and a familiar candor, voice so quiet it was barely discernible, “I’m fine. It doesn’t bother me… if, um, if you…” she gestured vaguely, “and then we could discuss the reports afterwards, if you want.”

It was hard to conceal his shock once he figured out what she was saying, eyes saucer-wide and lips parted as he blinked at her for a moment. And regardless of how good that sounded right now—cock all but aching as it strained against the fabric of his pants, having only been a few smooth strokes away from spilling into his hand—his mind was whirring, burning through the reel too fast for him to even think about that—because despite how intimate their friendship was, and despite everything worse they’d seen each other through, he couldn’t begin to fathom why Mikasa would okay that, much less _suggest_ it—when something caught his attention. He watched Mikasa shift slightly, adjusting her weight—watched her thighs press tightly together under her skirt. And she looked nervous and uncertain herself when she had said it—had been ever since she’d opened the door—but he may have misinterpreted _why_.

“Mikasa… do you—” he started as carefully as he could, before he knew how on earth to finish it.

Pressing her lips together firmly, and having trouble meeting his eyes, she gestured and repeated, trying and failing to sound indifferent, “It wouldn’t bother me. It’d be… easier to focus. If I knew that you weren’t—”

“Mm,” Armin nodded in something akin to understanding, face still brightly flushed. He couldn’t believe that this was something he was actually considering—but maybe it would sound more outlandish to him if Mikasa wasn’t looking at him that way, stealing nervous glances, or if the throb of his cock tight against the front of his jeans wasn’t equally as distracting.

He tried to remind himself there was still ambiguity in what she was asking for—wasn’t sure, from what she said, or rather, from what she’d avoided saying, what exactly that was—and he tried to glean a little more sense out of all of this. 

“If I… If I did do it, to get it over with so that we could talk—I could keep the pillow here, to cover it, if you want—”

“You don’t have to,” she shook her head—and that may have been the most transparent thing she’d said so far. She felt dizzy at her own admission.

Armin gulped, subconsciously moved the pillow away from himself—and he knew that he was leaving himself on display, the curve of his hard cock thick against the fabric, pressing up toward his hip from how haphazardly he’d tucked it away—and it didn’t feel as bizarre or awkward as it should have, he thought. A jolt of pleasure curled hot in between Mikasa’s legs when he reached for the button, unclasped it wordlessly. Her heart had leapt up into her throat, overcome again with some nervousness that was anything but—and something thrilled through her stomach when she saw him fumbling to pull down the zipper, the thickness beneath it stretching the fabric taut. 

He hooked his fingers in his pants and lowered them on his hips just a bit, struggled to swallow around the heartbeat in his throat. Her inky eyes fluttered up to meet his, staring at him evenly behind dark lashes, rose-dusted cheeks—and he held her gaze nervously as he reached beneath the hem of his underwear. Watched her chest rise and fall, breaths shallow and heady. Watched the delicate tendons of her throat flex as she swallowed in anticipation.

His fingers curled over hot, hard flesh, and he slowly drew his cock out of his pants—and some reasonable and anxious part of him questioned how mortified he was going to be about this the instant after he found that relief—but it tapered off the moment he had a loose grip around himself. Slowly brushed his fingertips up over the head, flushed dark pink. Mikasa’s eyes gravitated downwards—and she felt and remembered that same familiar pang in her gut from so long ago, something hungry, something that pulsed between her legs. Remembered aching for something she didn’t understand, yet.

Armin gently and carefully stroked himself, grip moving down to the base, sucking in a soft breath as he relished in the smooth glide of skin—and he thought that maybe he should close his eyes, as if that would make this more appropriate, somehow—but he found himself unable to look away from her. And the shiver that rolled through him was that much richer when he drank in Mikasa’s flushed cheeks and parted lips, when she was right in front of him—and it was hard to deny what exactly that meant.

And his hand had sped up a little, but those strokes were still long and lazy, fingertips squeezing loosely as they slipped up the shaft—and Mikasa bit her lip at the sight. And seeing him this way was something she had admittedly _thought_ about before—whether or not she had set out to, and whether or not she had any right to—but it was entirely different to actually see it. He still could’ve hidden it, she thought to herself—wrapped his palm over his cock to obscure it as best he could and pumped with a tight grip and finished fast—but it occurred to her that, even if it embarrassed him, he realized she wanted to see. That he was showing her.

The realization rippled up her spine, curled in her toes. She was rapt as his breath hitched, as he bit his lip. As his thumb smeared over the glistening droplet beading at the slit, as it swept wetness over the tender pink head, rubbing in slow circles. Her clit throbbed hard at the soft groan that left his lips. She snaked a hand between her legs, releasing a breath at the sweet pressure—and froze when she realized what she was doing. To her surprise, he startled too—hips twitching and cock jumping hard when he saw her fingers push into the fabric of her skirt.

Somehow, that reaction—and that oddly content and comfortable closeness that had always rested between the two of them, even now—was enough to goad her on. Releasing a shaky breath, the black-haired girl slowly rucked the front of her long skirt higher up her thighs and let her hands slip beneath it. Hooking her fingers in her underwear, she tentatively tugged them down her thighs—a glistening string of wetness clinging to them as she pulled them away, let them fall from her knees to the floor—the sight of it forcing some breathless sound out of Armin. And even if she had the folds of her skirt to hide beneath, it still felt bold to slide her hand under them. Mikasa released a trembling breath the moment her fingertips dipped shallowly into her wetness, stroked slick over her clit.

Unconsciously, Armin’s hand was speeding up now, grip a little tighter, as he watched her fingertips rub in slow steady circles, laving wet over the tender pearl of her clit. As he heard her bite back a moan at the sensitive touch, as he watched the shudder roll through her. Her hips were rocking slightly every time her fingers slipped over her, deliciously wet, and he had matched her pace with his own hand, whether or not he realized it. He listened to her quivering breath, to the slick sound of her deft fingers—and his cock was painfully hard, aching something awful even with the relief of his hand. His grasp slipped warm and tight over his shaft, pleasure coiling tight in his gut each time his fingertips softly grazed that sensitive head—and he was closer than he’d realized. From the suppressed whimpers squeezing past her lips, he wondered if she was, too. Mikasa had carefully slipped her fingers inside of herself, curling into that tender spot inside of her and working herself open—so wet now that her knuckles were glistening—and she stared with a slack-jawed intensity at him, at his body, as she inched closer to coming undone—and he wondered if what she was thinking about had changed. His thoughts had changed, after all—and despite how good it still felt, even dry, to have his hand gliding over his cock, he couldn’t stop thinking about the slick sound of her fingers pushing into her deliciously wet heat. Couldn’t stop thinking about the shining wetness he’d seen when she pulled her underwear down. About how the sight of it made his mouth water.

And his motions had become a little more erratic as that feeling twisted tighter in his stomach, as he felt that heat building in his groin—and he choked back a groan in the back of his throat—cock rock hard and throbbing against his palm, hand a blur as he slipped it over himself. Mikasa felt liquid pleasure curl hot in her gut as she watched him work himself closer to the edge—and that rich, tight-chested, racing-heart feeling was surging through her, was tightening and coiling up in between her legs—and every time her fingertips swirled over the bump of her clit, her cunt clenched hard. She could feel it welling up inside of her—and it would be effortless to finish this way, shivering as her fingers delved between her legs—would be more than enough just to watch him the moment he unraveled—but something stopped her. Some inexplicable, clenched-jaw urge swelled up her chest, a surge of impatience. The urge—or the need—to touch him. To fold into him, against him, closer than the limits of flesh itself. And her throat was tight as she shifted up onto a knee—a shudder rippling through her thighs when they rubbed together, because _fuck_, she was close. 

Her breath was so heavy it was hard to speak under the weight of it. “Can… can I—”

And Armin didn’t know what she was asking, but he was already nodding—that same exact rush and need in how he looked at her—and she closed the small distance between them—swung a leg over his lap and met his lips in one clumsy motion. His soft gasp against her lips was swallowed down—and he felt her hands clasping and bunching fabric as she tried to move her skirt out of the way—fumbling as he helped her hurriedly tug the cloth away from her lap and back over her hips. Bit his lip hard to suppress a moan the moment she pressed her wetness hot against him.

She was so divinely wet that the rigid curve of his cock slipped smoothly against her—and she felt it pulse, push up against her with want. A soft sound catching in the back of her throat, heartbeat fluttering quick and timid beneath her skin, she rocked her hips, lifting herself up and back down. Felt the plump head of his cock slip over the pearl of her clit, rub against it—and a shiver rolled down her spine, the feeling so rich she could hardly stand it. Bracing herself on his shoulders, she rolled her hips against him again and again—felt the head of his cock dragging and slipping wet between her lips, sliding over her clit so sweetly—and her mouth had fallen open, that rich pleasure branching between her legs. She had already been close, but she was unprepared for how exhilarating it felt to have him pressed to her—to feel his pulse hammering hot under the palms of her hands, to feel that intimate part of him throbbing against her, to be able to see how enraptured he was. She kissed him again—mouths meshing long enough to muffle a gratuitous moan—before they broke apart and she bumped her forehead against his. Felt his breath wash over her face, noses nudging together—felt him lift a hand to clasp against her cheek—savored this bizarrely intimate moment, and the only person she felt she could have it with.

He was moving now, too—shallowly thrusting his hips up as she kept grinding against his cock—and she was so sensitive it was nearly maddening, thighs shaking as that thick shaft pressed hard between her lips, as that swollen head, flushed and soaking wet and unbearably tender, slipped wet over her clit—and she could feel it building, swelling up tight in her gut—felt the shudders already rippling through her, tingles branching from between her legs. Her cunt throbbed, clenched with every roll of her hips—inching ever closer—and she was helpless to stop it when it spilled over, fingers scrambling against his shoulders and toes curling—

Mikasa bit back the scream that tore its way out of her throat, came so hard it startled her. Pleasure shuddered hard and rich through her body—her hips jerking against him as the sensation became overwhelming, as her back arched. As her clit throbbed hard, ecstasy tingling beneath her skin—and her cry tapered off into broken moans, into breathless whines. Armin’s mouth had fallen open—and Mikasa could feel how his hands shook as he gripped her hips, could hear the cries catching in his throat—and watching her finish had him so painfully close to tipping over the edge. And aftershocks were still coursing through her body, rippling through her, but she slipped a little lower against his shaft, tried to pull her skirt out of the way—curled her fingers around the top of him, squeezing the wet head in her grip as she rolled her hips.

And it only took a couple of strokes, fingers massaging the sensitive head, slick with her cum, for his body to start twitching, for his legs to draw up a little bit behind her as he shivered. His cock was painfully hard, nearly aching as her fingertips swirled over the head—deeply-flushed and glistening-wet—and he barely had time to try to pull his shirt up over his stomach before the feeling surged up in him.

Clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle his cry, Armin thrust his hips up hard against her, relief coursing hot through his veins. She felt his cock jump hard in her grasp, against her pulsing cunt, as thick ropes of white spurted from the tip—and trying to move his shirt had been a moot point, she was quick to realize. His body buckled, muscles clenching and tensing as he finished—groaning as he spilled into her hand. She kept steadily smoothing her hand over the tip of his cock as he came, smearing glistening white over the darkly flushed head with each stroke. Kept doing so until his body was quivering, until he was entirely spent, and he tapped on her arm with hurried and labored breath until she stopped.

The two of them sat there for a moment, breathing heavily and recuperating. Mikasa would have been content to sit there for longer—catching her breath, feeling his heartbeart loud in his spent cock, still pressed up against her—reveling in the afterglow—and maybe she would have, if she didn't feel something start trickling down the back of her hand. The mess over her fingers and knuckles had started dripping, and she shifted back on her heels, off of him, and drew her hand away. The blonde was quick to plant his weight onto his palms and sit up a little more.

“Sorry, here,” he murmured, before he took her hand gently by the wrist, wiped it clean on his soiled shirt. Rubbed the fabric over her knuckles tenderly, looking flushed but less embarrassed than she’d expected. She was happy that he wasn’t.

He loosed his gentle grip on her wrist and was unbuttoning his shirt now, slipping it from his shoulders as carefully as he could—and, in the bizarre lightness of the atmosphere between them, bobbing along on a buoy of endorphins, she was as amused as she was genuinely curious about what occurred to her.

“...Were you always just planning on ruining your shirt, even if I hadn’t walked in?” she asked, a teasing lilt to her voice, as she thought about how she’d found him during her earlier interruption.

He blinked at her for a moment, before realizing what she meant and breathing out an easy laugh. “Oh, no, I didn’t, uh—” he started, blushed and winced a little when he managed, “It doesn’t usually… go that far.”

Mikasa lifted her clean hand to hide a smile. Because even if he wasn’t embarrassed, the flustered reply had something warm prickling in her chest.

“None of it… got on you, did it?” he glanced over worriedly as he wiped his front with the shirt—and she had half a mind to deadpan and lift her hand up as a reminder—before she realized, with some degree of bashfulness, that he was glancing toward the front of her skirt.

“Oh… no,” she shook her head, gave herself a quick once-over. “I think… the skirt caught whatever dripped.” She grabbed a handful of bunched fabric and stretched it out, nodding when she saw the shiny whitish stain. Flexed her own fingers almost thoughtfully—and despite being wiped off her hand was still tacky, felt sticky between the fingers.

“You can change, if you want,” Armin offered quickly when he saw her small frown, gestured to his dresser. “I was actually about to put pajamas on anyways… you know, before you came in. It’s late.”

The atmosphere was surprisingly easygoing, as if they hadn’t just humped the living daylights out of each other unprompted—and even if it wasn’t tense or uncomfortable, Mikasa wasn’t sure if they were going to _act_ like they hadn’t. Wasn’t sure whether this was something they were going to discuss—or whether this was something they were going to do again sometime and what that meant—and she could tell that Armin was wondering the same thing, dependably overthinking. His mind was whirring away quietly, a soft nervousness tinting his features. She nodded and stood, watching him carefully, almost experimentally, as she shucked her skirt down over her hips and let it fall to the floor.

“We can both get ready for bed,” she suggested quietly—and though his mouth had gone suspiciously dry the moment she had stripped, he still nodded in agreement, getting to his feet.

She paused to watch him set the bunched up shirt on the floor—watched him tuck himself back into his underwear a little self-consciously and take off his jeans—and she was certain she stared longer than she should have. She turned away, peeling off her shirt and unfastening the clasp on her bra. Mikasa left them on the bed when she turned to walk toward his dresser, but not before dropping low to pick her underwear off the ground. Didn’t feel exposed in any way she thought she shouldn’t—as open as she liked it to be between them, albeit in a different way.

The two of them changed slowly, with measured and expectant glances—sometimes an appreciative one, at soft skin and svelte muscle, and sometimes a bided one, as if trying to gauge what the other was thinking, testing the water. She tugged a little at the neckline of the pajama shirt and shifted her legs—and the fit wasn’t perfect, a little tight at the hips and chest, but doable.

Her heartrate spiked back up when they did finally leave the room to wash up and use the restroom before bed—carried her sticky hand stiffly at her side and all but held her breath on the brief walk there, but didn’t encounter anyone. Wondered if anyone had paced through these hallways earlier, and if they had heard anything. Wondered if there was a point to worrying about this as if they’d done something wrong, when she didn’t feel like they had.

She was holding her breath again when they met back up at his door—and she realized she could easily turn tail and go back to her room instead—just pick up her clothes tomorrow—but she found herself gravitating back toward it. Felt curiosity pinch tight in her chest. Maybe she would end up returning to her room tonight either way, based on what Armin wanted—but what Armin wanted was exactly what she needed to find out.

Less than a minute passed before Armin was pacing back toward the door himself, watching as Mikasa stood unsurely outside of it. She didn’t fidget, but he could see that uncertainty in her face. He slowed to a stop in front of her, looked up.

“Did, uh, did you wanna finish talking about the reports?” he tried carefully, beckoning to the door, before he breathed out a weak laugh. “You could tell me some more about the planes, if you wanted.”

And even if her lips quirked up at the teasing—prompted her to dully mumble something about not remembering when exactly he’d become such a smartass—her heart lifted. Because jokes aside, she understood what this was. An invitation.

He opened the door for her and followed her inside, shutting it behind him. After a moment of dawdling and decision-making, Armin opted to get into bed and pull the covers up over his lap, still sitting up—leaving her the option, either way, to sit on top of the covers across from him or to join him. And despite the fact that they had slept side-by-side an innumerable amount of times before, this decision still felt a little too significant, a little unfair to leave up to her, but she supposed he had already taken a wide enough leap by inviting her back in.

Swallowing around the pulse in her throat, she peeled the covers back and shuffled beneath them. Her hips and shoulders were flush with his—and the standard-issued full-size mattress for all the commanding officers was a snug fit for two bodies—but from how both of them leaned closer still, it was clear that neither one of them minded. Armin did pull the stack of papers up onto his lap, and she leaned back against the headboard, and they chatted about it—and he admitted that there was only so much he could assume now, off the top of his head, but he promised to rerun dynamics calculations for varying helm sizes, with some range of uncertainty for each, pass them by the engineering team tomorrow, and determine if the maneuvers were doable. Mikasa was nodding along, certain that she’d remember to relay this information to Jean tomorrow, even as the comforting lull of his voice had her eyelids drooping. And she was slouching lower and lower on the bed, until just her head rested against the headboard—and she only noticed this when Armin reached below her to lift the pillow out from under her shoulders and settle it gently behind her head.

Inhaling sharply, her lids fluttered open as his hands were pulling away from the pillow—and she smiled appreciatively when she shifted her head, felt soft feathers beneath it instead of hard wood. Realizing that she’d nearly drifted off, with some degree of abashedness, she murmured, “Oh, sorry, Armin. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

He shook his head as she yawned, sparing her a fond glance. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Was there… more you wanted to talk about?” she mumbled softly, lolling her head and glancing up at him curiously. Showed no signs of getting up, either way.

He shrugged, shifted lower down the bed so that they were eye-to-eye. Laying inches away from each other and tucked warm beneath the sheets. And Armin pressed his lips together into a thin waxen line, looking like he wanted to say something but unsure if he should. Mikasa looked at him expectantly once she noticed him in deliberation, and her imploring look was enough to break the dam.

“That… was really nice,” he managed—and even though the oil lamp burned low, she could still see the carmine flush dusting his cheeks.

She quickly nodded back, swallowed nervously, as she confessed, “Yeah. I—I liked it a lot.”

Her heartbeat fluttered fast at both their admissions—and her stomach twinged at the memory of it. At remembering the feel of him against her, and before that, at the nervous excitement plunging low in her stomach as she watched him. The words bubbled out of her before she had a chance to think them over—maybe would have let them stay a curiosity if her mind wasn’t so muddled by sleep.

“What do you think about?” she asked quietly. “You know, when you…”

Armin’s face was redder now as he soaked in her question—and it didn’t feel like there was any pressure on him to answer if he didn’t want to—but he tried to oblige her anyways.

“I usually don’t… start out thinking of anything, actually,” he averted his eyes, but still watched her nod understandingly in his periphery. “Sometimes it’s just to get it over with, since it can be... uncomfortable, or distracting. But… letting my mind wander helps, I guess.”

And that didn’t answer her question, but his avoidant gaze did. He tried again. “Thinking about dreams I’ve had helps, sometimes. Dreams about… you.”

And he had less to risk by sharing this, he realized, given that she had been writhing in his lap minutes ago—so for all he knew this feeling was somewhat mutual—but that didn’t stop his throat from clamping up nervously as his voice died off. Mikasa looked like she was considering this information carefully, before sharing a bizarre admission of her own.

“...For some reason, every time it rains this hard and I can hear it against the roof, I think about that dream you had before we enlisted.”

Armin startled and froze, wide-eyed—clearly remembered exactly what she was talking about—and eventually breathed out, “So you were awake.”

She nodded.

“I’m sorry, you could’ve—could’ve woken me up,” he stuttered out—and he looked just as embarrassed as he had then. And despite how terribly that probably would have gone over too, back then, the suggestion made her think that maybe he would have preferred being interrupted over having to wash out his pants. “You shouldn’t have had to… see it, or hear it, I guess, I’m sorry.”

She bit her lip, turning to look up at the ceiling, before admitting, “I think… I think that I wanted to.”

Armin blinked in surprise. And if there were any hard feelings about her standing by idly and letting him ruin one of his only pairs of pants while they were homeless, they weren’t his.

He was somewhat speechless then—unsure what exactly he should follow that with—when she glanced at him again, worried her lip. Soft rose dusted her cheeks.

“I think I want to do this again, too.”

Armin nodded, pulse quick in his chest. He shifted closer to her ever so slightly, confessed, “Me too.”

Neither was sure who moved first, but somehow, under the glow-spun shadows and gauzy sheets, their mouths found each other—meshed softly together, into mingling breath and curling lips. Melted into one another under gossamer tongues of lamplight, lapping gold into the darkness. 

The two of them nodded off beneath flush skin and pattering rain, and for at least a moment, their world was still again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! ♡♡ 
> 
> First of all, huge thanks to Lauren (@figmentalities on here, @armin-hearteyes-arlert on tumblr) for all of her reassurances with this fic and genuinely just for being the wonderful person she is! _Please_, if you love yourself, check out the content she's made for Arumika Week—I guarantee you'll lose your mind (though ngl, I lose my mind anytime Lauren puts out anything, she's DUMB TALENTED)!!
> 
> I hope this was worth the read, and I appreciate y'all so much! Byeeee~ ♡


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